Chapter 17

Two mornings later, Malik stuck his head into the dining porch at Mrs. Kuiper’s. “No breakfast for me, this morning, ma’am.”

“My cookin’ not good enough for you no more, young man?” Mrs. Kuiper was shaking a big wooden spoon at him.

“Never that, Missus Kuiper. It’s your cooking that prevents me from going out and finding me a bride.”

“That and your no-’count repute, Mister Malik.”

“I’m meeting Cowboy at the bakery. He’ll be around the next few nights. We’ll both be here for supper.”

“Good day to you, then,” she sniffed. “I’m busy. My cookin’s still good enough for some.” But her grin became visible before she turned fully away from him.

Hannah Isely was a tall, slightly plump black woman, a former slave who had worked under her master at his bakery shop in New Orleans’ French Quarter. Now, at forty, she was in relatively good health, save for some chronic lower back pain, not uncommon in her profession. For most of her younger life, when she had been a slave, her master, who had purchased her when she was eighteen, had treated her well and never abused her. She did not consider the sexual liaison that had developed with her master as abusive, but one of mutual satisfaction and deep affection. Even more, it had been the happy source of her daughter, Matilda, who, now at twenty-two years of age, assisted her in the Waypoint bakery. Matilda was slim, as her mother had been in her youth, and Hannah thought her daughter’s mulatto good looks might be one reason for the continuing growth in their clientele among the younger, and even the somewhat older men, in and around town.

In New Orleans, before she even realized she was pregnant, Hannah’s master had gone off to war, a proud son of the Confederacy. Alas, he was never to return.

His will included mention of Hannah’s manumission papers, freeing Hannah and the daughter he never met. But, under the laws of that period, he was not able to pass on the ownership of the bakery to a free Negro woman. Still, Hannah knew where the gold coins were hidden, her master’s profits from nearly a decade of careful management and hard work. She buried them in a keg of flour and rolled the keg onto the bakery’s delivery wagon. Hannah hitched up the mule and she and Matilda headed west.

Eventually, Hannah had to sell the mule and the wagon, a town-purposed vehicle, in deference to the much more rigorous demands of the primitive western byways. With the proceeds, they took to riverboat travel.

One hot and breezy afternoon, on the after freight deck of a steam boat, near to its stern-wheel, she woke from an unplanned nap, slumped against a stack of seed-filled gunny sacks. She was dismayed to find a well-dressed, distinguished-looking man—tall, lean, light-complected, and fair of face, his countenance broken only by a pencil-thin mustache and a long, narrow scar across his left cheek—seated on a crate but a few feet away and feeding her toddler, Matilda, from a paper-wrapped lunch of biscuits, fried chicken, and a sliced apple. Hannah’s quickly-straightened posture alerted the man to her alarm.

He looked up at her with a kind smile. “I hope you do not mind, madam,” he’d said, in precise and clipped pronunciation, under-hung with a guttural richness that brought to Hannah’s mind the flavor of a dark, savory pumpernickel loaf.

The man said, “The young lady was growing restive and I know that, if you could nap amidst all this din, you probably needed your sleep. I am happy to share my lunch with her. The food is fresh, from the last fueling stop.” He offered another apple slice to Matilda, then looked up at her mother, once more.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Valerian Malik.”

Among Matilda Isely’s admirers was one Cowboy Tsosie.

When the Tsosies had left the Malik ranch to start their own spread, Cowboy had been seventeen and Matilda only nine. Their real acquaintance began eight years later, after Hannah—whom Valerian had employed as a cook—and Matilda left the ranch and opened the bakery in Waypoint. Even then, Cowboy’s visits to Waypoint were mostly to the Malik ranch, until Emil returned from law school and moved to town.

Valerian had instituted a trust fund for all of the children of the men who had been his partners when he started the ranch. He had also included Cowboy and Mockingbird, as they had been of real help in establishing the educational and training programs in which all the younger ones participated. Control of each child’s dividend share came to them at age twenty-five. The two Tsosie cousins, Cowboy and Mockingbird, had pressed the entire amount on their parents, but both were flatly refused. As Sargent had put it, “It’s your money. It means that at least we have two we’re not going to have to worry about.”

Still, Mockingbird and Cowboy found ways to benefit the ranch, often in the form of helpful gifts to their cousins and siblings, the purchase of special foodstuffs all could enjoy, a heavier anvil for Sargent, or a larger cook stove for Tilly. Mockingbird had outfitted the classroom; Cowboy purchased the original Appaloosa stock. These were investments that now benefited the Tsosie family and the ranch as a whole. Even then, both cousins had modest tastes, so they were still well-provided.

While Cowboy was far from rich, he did enjoy an income that allowed him to not be a burden on the ranch and to have some freedom of movement. Over the last couple years, Cowboy’s travel often had been toward the counter at the Waypoint Bakery.

Today, the bakery’s service counter was dominated by three young men wearing sheriff’s deputy badges on their city clothes. In notably profane terms, they were expressing their certainty that, since they were county lawmen, goods and services were gratis. When Malik walked into the bakery, it was to a hushed group of customers—two men and three housewives—come for their daily bread. Cowboy had not yet arrived. Malik easily skirted the intimidated customers and made his way to the counter.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed the deputies loudly, “you seem to be new to town. Welcome. My name is Emil Malik. It’s a pleasure to have you join our community.” He turned to Hannah Isely, behind the counter. “Make this my treat, Miz Isely, a way for me to show our new residents Waypoint’s hospitality.” The three deputies, none of whom Malik recognized, seemed nonplussed by his approach. If they were typical of Sheriff Bank’s usual hires, they likely had not been brought on board for their intelligence.

“What you sayin’, fancy-pants?” the biggest of the three snarled at Malik, who was dressed for work, in a business suit, collared shirt, a simple maroon tie, and the top hat then in style.

“I’m saying, your purchases are on me. You can pay for yourself the next time you come in to enjoy these delicious baked goods.”

“Ain’t payin’ now, ain’t payin’ then,” the big man said.

Malik said to them, “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” He turned to the other customers, huddled nearer the door. “Folks, you might want to do you shopping a little later this morning. I think it will be a while as I explain our local customs to these newcomers. Best move along now. Come back later.” The men and women, somewhat befuddled, but still cowed by the three deputies, responded almost gratefully to Malik’s suggestion and they quickly filed out the door. Malik turned the sign on the door to say, “CLOSED,” and threw the bolt.